in Spain I eat holy midnight supper sleep morning away even though at home I crowed heathenish before dawn & tucked in at nine, I mean who knew my rise & shine would dissolve in foreign lands–even when it’s chill and rainy in Girona, when my rickety umbrella is unsatisfactory & every street in town is a staircase to stony perdition I don’t care, I catapult all night from one winding cathedral path to another accompanied by bells–yes bells & drums & liturgical nonsense of golden mittens & ruby mitres, if this is religion I cannot get enough–just fill my vacancies with pomp and bishops, let me dine on lamb and relish every crucifix.